The Perfect Match
Page 10

The warmth of the pub was welcome. At least the little town had this, a little tavern at which to drown one’s sorrows.
“Hello, Colleen,” he said, because yeah, befriending the bartender was never a bad idea.
“Hallo, Tom,” she said in a fair imitation of his accent. “Bass ale tonight?”
“I’ll have a whiskey, love,” he said.
“Not your first, I’m guessing.”
“You’re astute and beautiful. A bit terrifying.”
“You driving?”
“No, miss.” He smiled. She cocked an eyebrow and poured him his drink.
“I’m meeting Honor Holland,” he said. “Do you know her?”
“I know everyone,” Colleen answered. “I’ll send her over when she gets here.”
Tom made his way to a booth at the back of the bar where they could talk about illegal matters privately. There was a uniformed policeman there, but he was occupied with a pretty redhead, so the fact that Tom was perhaps a bit drunk already might go unnoticed. And let’s not forget. He was also planning to commit a crime.
He took a sip of whiskey and tried to relax. Yesterday after Candace called, he’d looked up green card fraud on dear old Google. Not encouraging. Jail time. Whopping fines. Deportation with no possibility of ever living in the States again.
He could go back to England. Visit Charlie once or twice a year. And then—Tom could see it already—the visits would become less frequent. He’d get weary of trying to carve out a friendship with some kid who bloody well hated him. Charlie would turn to drugs and terrible music—or even worse music, as the case might be. Tom would marry some nice English girl who’d resent the time and money it took to cross the Pond, and the memory of that small, lovely boy who’d once flown kites with him would fade into obscurity.
Fuck-all.
“Are you Tom?”
He looked up and there was Catfight Woman Number One standing right in front of him. “Hello! It’s you!”
“Um, have we met?”
“Not officially,” he said. “Though I have fond memories of you.”
He could do worse, he noted. She was...all right. She was sort of pretty. Also, she was here, which was nice of her. Unfortunately, he seemed a bit knackered. This would be a case of subliminally shooting himself in the foot, he might say, if he were an aficionado of Dr. Freud. Yep. Pissed. His vocabulary and accent tended to mushroom exponentially when under the influence.
She frowned. “I’m Honor Holland.”
Something moved in her handbag, and Tom jumped. “Shit, darling, I hate to tell you this, but there seems to be a rat in your bag.”
“Very funny. It’s my dog.”
“Is it? If you say so. Well, Honor Holland. Lovely to meet you.”
“You, too.” Her expression contradicted that statement, but she sat down. The rat peeked out of the bag and bared its teeth. Ah. It was a dog, he was almost positive.
“So.” She folded her hands—pretty hands, very tidy with clear polish on her short nails—and looked at him. “I gather you’re the Brit who was in the bar the night of my little...meltdown.”
“Darling, that wasn’t little,” he said warmly. “It was bloody magnificent.”
“Can we skip over that?”
“Absolutely! Though if you’d like to reminisce, I’m all ears. Your hair’s quite different, isn’t it? Looks better. That sister-wife thing was a bit off-putting. Also, there’s less for people to grab if you get into another fight. Very practical of you. So. Shall we get married?”
His charm seemed to be lost on her. “Okay, I’m leaving. I don’t think we need to waste any more time here, do you?”
“Oh, come now, darling. Give us a chance, won’t you? I’m a bit nervous.” He smiled. When he smiled in class, most of the females (and a couple of the lads as well) got a bit swoony.
She blushed. Brilliant. She covered by looking into her purse, where the little rat dog was still baring its teeth at him. Tom tried smiling at the dog. Didn’t have quite the same effect as it had on the wee beastie’s owner.
The server appeared. “Hi, Monica,” Honor said. “Got anything special tonight?”
“We’ve got two bottles of the McGregor Black Russian Red.”
“I’ll have a glass of that, then.”
So Miss Holland wasn’t leaving yet. “And I’ll have another of these,” Tom said, holding up his empty glass.
“No, he won’t,” Honor said.
“Taking care of me already, love?” he asked.
“You got it,” the serving wench said, giving Tom the eye. He winked at her, and off she went.
“Are you drunk?” Honor asked.
“Please,” he said. “I’m British. The proper word is pissed.”
“Great,” she muttered.
“So, Miss Holland. Thanks for coming to meet me.”
She didn’t answer. Just looked at him, expressionless.
She wasn’t bad. Nothing wrong with her. Blondish hair. Brown eyes. Normal build, though he wished the shirt was a bit more revealing so he could take a look. Those pearls weren’t doing much for her sex appeal.
Take them off, and yeah, he could imagine her in bed. Quite vividly, in fact. On second thought, leave the pearls on and take off everything else.
Oh, shit. He rubbed the back of his neck. The server brought Honor her wine and Tom’s whiskey.
His date didn’t touch her glass.
“Right,” he said. “Why don’t I summarize what I know about you, and you can fill in the gaps—how’s that?”
“Fine,” she said.
“As I understand it, you were in love with a bloke who was clearly using you for sex and is now marrying your best mate.”
She closed her eyes.
“Don’t forget, darling, I had a front-row seat that night. So now you’ve realized your knight in shining armor is, in fact, a faithless whore of a man—”
“You know what? It wasn’t like that. So shut up.”
Tom leaned back in his seat and squinted at her. “Funny, that. How women always rush to defend the men who’ve scraped them off their shoes. Interesting.” Now was the time he should stop talking. “Anyway, you backed the wrong pony and now you’re a bit desperate. Want to get married, prove you’re over the wanker, pop out a couple kids while there’s still time.”
She sputtered. His mouth kept doing its thing. “That’s all fine. As for me, I need a green card. Not sure about kids just yet, but I say let’s get married and figure that out later. You’re female, you’re not old, you’re not ugly. Sold.”
God. He was such a bunghole.
She stared him down. Had to give her credit for that. “I’ll let you get the check,” she said.
The relief he felt was mixed with regret. “Cheerio, then. Lovely to meet you.”
“Wish I could say the same,” she said, sliding out of the booth.
“Don’t forget the vermin,” he said, nodding to her bag. She grabbed it and left without looking back.
“Well done, mate,” he said to himself, a familiar feeling of disgust in his stomach. He pressed his fingers against his forehead for a second, resisting the urge to follow Miss Holland and apologize for being such a prick.
It was just that using someone was easier in theory than in reality. Even for Charlie’s sake.
Besides, he’d been with a woman who was in love with someone else. Been there, done that, had those scars.
And realizing she was the woman who’d been so...passionate that night...he rather liked that wine-tossing, hair-pulling woman. Someone like her deserved better than a marriage of convenience, whatever her reasons for coming here tonight.
 
 
CHAPTER FIVE
“I DON’T KNOW if I’m the red-lipstick type,” Honor said two nights later. “I feel a little like Pennywise the Clown.”
“God, remember Jack made us watch that?” Faith exclaimed from where she was smooching Spike on the bed. “I practically wet myself, I was so scared. Not that you look like him, Honor,” she added. “Not even close.”
Colleen O’Rourke, self-proclaimed expert on all things male, squinted critically at Honor. “Yeah, okay,” she said. “A little like Pennywise. We had to try. But we’re on the right path, don’t worry.” She plucked a pink-and-green hairband from the basket where they still resided. “And can I just say how glad I am to see that those hairbands have gone the way of the dinosaur?” She tossed it on the floor, where Spike immediately pounced and began gnawing. Blue, Faith’s gargantuan Golden retriever, whined from his hiding place under the bed, as he was a big baby where Spike the Ferocious was concerned.
Honor frowned, then remembered not to (time for Botox?). She still wasn’t used to her hair, kept trying to swoop it off her shoulders, only to realize it was gone. That, combined with more makeup than she’d worn in the past twenty years, made her reflection quite unfamiliar.
“You look great,” Faith, the bringer of all this stuff, said reassuringly. Until her sister had arrived a half hour ago, Honor’s dressing table had only contained a hairbrush and a jar of Oil of Olay moisturizer (the same brand Goggy used, Faith pointed out). Now, the table surface was awash in girlie stuff—blush, eye shadow, seven different types of moisturizer, brushes and wands and tubes and pots.
Yes. Honor had agreed to a makeover. Things were feeling a little desperate. Could new eye shadow change her life? She was about to find out at the ripe old age of the years are precious, egg-wise.
But doing things differently...that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Even if she did look slutty. Then again, slutty might be good.
“I hear there’s a makeover,” came a voice, and Prudence banged into the room, clad in work boots and flannel and holding a glass of wine. “Why wasn’t I invited?”
“You can be next,” Colleen said. “I’ve been dying to get my hands on you for years.”
“To tell you the truth, I have been wearing some makeup lately,” Pru said. “Carl and I did a little Avatar the other night, and I’m still washing blue off the sheets.”
“Thanks for sharing,” Faith said. “Another movie dead to me.”
“Why? What else have I ruined?”
“Last of the Mohicans, Les Mis, Star Wars,” Faith began.
“Don’t forget Lincoln,” Honor added.
“And The Big Bang Theory,” Colleen said.
“Hey, we didn’t know that wasn’t porn,” Pru said, grinning. “And go ahead, make fun of me. I’ve been happily married for almost twenty-five years.” She took another sip of wine. “Honor, you look a little like Pennywise the Clown. Go easy on that foundation.”
Honor gave Colleen a significant look, and Coll sighed and handed her a tissue.
“Is the mascara supposed to look this clumpy?” Honor said, leaning forward. “It’s getting hard to open my eyes.”
“Put on another coat. It’ll smooth out,” Colleen ordered.
Blue whined again from under the bed. “Man-up, Blue,” Faith said. “Little Spike here only weighs four pounds.”
“She’s up to five. And she has the heart of a lion,” Honor said. Blue remained where he was.
“So why were you meeting Tom Barlow the other night, Honor?” Colleen asked.
Honor looked away from her reflection and pulled on her earlobe, then made herself stop. Cartilage started to break down when you were over thirty-five, she’d just read. Didn’t want droopy earlobes to match her AARP eggs. “He’s the nephew of a friend of Goggy’s or something. I was just being polite.”
“He’s cute, don’t you think?”
“I did until he opened his mouth.” She rubbed her lips with the tissue. Still more red. This stuff never came off, apparently.
“Really? He seems nice enough. Single. Keeps to himself most of the time. Too bad he’s not older, or I’d totally go for him. It’s the accent. I practically come when he orders a beer.”
“You should hear Carl speak German,” Pru said. “Très sexy.”
Honor flinched at the image, and Colleen handed her another tube. “Here, try this shade.”
She obeyed as Faith and Colleen doled out tips. Press your lips together. Keep your lips apart. Blot. Rub. Dot. Smear. Who knew lipstick was so hard? Now on to blush and bronzer, both women chattering away like blackbirds. They were being awfully nice, Honor thought, helping her become more appealing to men.
The only trouble was that men were hard to find in a town of seven hundred and fifteen.
You know, it was funny. When Honor had seen Goggy’s friend’s nephew in the bar the other night, she...felt something. Her heart did this weird twist, and hope rose so quickly and so hard that she literally stopped in her tracks.
Tom Barlow wasn’t middle-aged or odd-looking. He was...he was...well, not quite handsome. Straight brown hair cut very short. Normal enough features. But there was something about him—maybe it was just the surprise that he was actually age-appropriate and not a balding, big-toothed math teacher who smelled like mothballs—but no, even past that, Honor liked that face. It wasn’t a perfect, beautiful face, like Brogan’s, but she had the feeling she could look at that face for a long, long time and not get bored.
His eyes were dark, though she couldn’t exactly tell the color, and a scar cut through one eyebrow, and even though she realized she shouldn’t be aroused by the mark of some past injury, she kinda was. His mouth was full and—holy ChapStick, Batman, suddenly, she could see things happening between the two of them; she could feel a strong squeeze not just in her chest, but also from Down Under, the killer combination, and suddenly the eggs were primping in front of a mirror.